Waiting for Blue Skies
by not for granted
Summary: AU. After the Titans are victorious in the Battle for Olympus, the surviving demigods have gone into hiding. Now mortals are aware of the monsters, and several familiar faces are dealing with the new world order in very different ways.
1. Prologue

**Hello, been busy.  
**  
 **For anyone who has continued to follow me, I appreciate it more than you can imagine. And I hope that this hiatus hasn't been too much. Both real life and participation in the PJOBigBang writing on tumblr got me busy with other things, but will update my other stories soon.  
**  
 **In the meantime, I'm reposting the story I posted on tumblr. Though there I posted it as "Waiting _On_ Blue Skies". Anyway, enjoy!  
**  
 **Disclaimer: I don't own "Percy Jackson the Olympians".**

* * *

 _ **Prologue**_

 _When it started mortals were desperate to explain away all of the disasters and disappearances rationally, like proving the tragedies were ordinary facts of life would undo all the turmoil. Mostly they were too afraid to admit the world was ending._

 _No, that wasn't true at all. There were enough doomsday preppers and conspiracy theorists in North America alone to have a sizable consensus that the world was over-do for a little Apocalypse. People like the sanctimonious religious fanatics who believed that gay people were bringing on the end of days, or far-right racists who were itching for the inevitable race war, or the insanely liberal commune grassroots who believed that government was cooking up super-AIDS distributed in teeth-whitener to wipe out minorities._

 _Yes plenty of people expected, hoped for, or dreaded that the end of the world was coming soon and very soon but they wanted to have their Apocalypse. Those that made peace with the world ending, they at least wanted to have their ending. People preferred to be in control, and what better control was there than to have guessed right about the ending?_

 _Mortals had been in control for too long, or at least thought they had been. That was a hard thing to give up. A lot of people were wrong about the end. That was one of the worst hurts, one of many. The new reign was measured in sadism after all, the new king of heaven and earth was compulsive when it came to cruel for cruelty's sake._

 _He was not big on patience though, and mortals with all their insistences that life was going to move on like normal? That was probably what caused some of the more spectacular displays of wanton cruelty and violence._

 _First was with the explosions in New York, leveling most buildings taller than the Empire State Building. News reports blamed terrorists almost immediately, but couldn't agree on Islamic radicals or anarchists or one lone wolf who was especially outgoing and well supplied. At least one station blamed South Korea, thinking of North Korea, so they held the distinction of being three kinds of wrong._

 _Second was the swath of destruction that cut through the American heartland up to the East Coast. Even with the reports of people seeing what looked like a volcano with fiery faces on a pair of elephantine legs thundering through, the overwhelming majority decided quite firmly that it was a freak hurricane. When it was pointed out that hurricanes needed to start over a large body of water, the story changed to freak tornado. Or the diehard hurricane fans stuck with the hurricane theory and decided it must've just been especially freaky._

 _Third got people a little more concerned, since it was so much harder to explain. Attacks and disasters were terrible facts of life, but teenagers in old armor with swords and spears weren't supposed to be getting into fights with the police. They certainly weren't supposed to win, handedly. One by one, sources were discredited; shaky cell phone videos are labeled hoaxes, footage from police body-cams clearly show gang violence with theatrical leanings, nothing more. 'Must be it's all for a movie' they thought, even if the tone and genre was hard to pin down from the released 'teasers'. No one took these bizarre invaders seriously, not until the national guard got involved across the country, and by then it was too late._

 _Fourth and most horrid so far were the rash of odd birth-defects. Most common were smallish nubs that were unmistakably the start of horns, followed closely by a mix of reptilian features. Serpentine legs, extra arms, extra eyes, not enough eyes, scales, patches of fur, rows of teeth where there should've just been newborn gums, all sorts of frightful discoloration, and massive size or sometimes even a litter of terrifyingly alien newborns were all recorded. All records had increasingly thin excuses; extreme fetal alcohol syndrome, radiation from water polluted by fracking, some written off as delusions from distraught parents. Eventually the records ceased to exist. Incidents like a giant, many-armed humanoid wailing like an infant and tearing apart an EMT. Then a clinic getting burnt to the ground by a fire that had the malicious presence of mind to block the exit doors were lumped in with other suspecting terrorist activity._

 _And by this time the amusement at humanity's insistent continued normalcy gave way to irritation. The Olympians were satisfied with a masquerade but the new leadership was from an older race that was even more egotistical. Nothing would satisfy them except for fearful, unmistakable, absolute worship._

 _Fifth and final sign? What would be labeled 'The Mist' was torn asunder and truth revealed. Monsters were real and they owned America._

 _Slight correction; literal monsters were real and they owned America._

 _When the initial shock died down, some of the world had laughed and applauded at the proof that America, the once global superpower, was revealed to be as godless and full of devils as accused. There were others who declared this a mass hysteria, a sign of corrupt capitalist failure as opposed to their own stable regimes._

 _More support for the so called Titans came about with the withdrawal of American foreign troops to try to bolster the outmatched National Guard. That didn't last much longer. Any bemusement or schadenfreude died when all trade did. First nothing was imported, nothing was exported, and then all communication ceased. Satellite images showed just shadow, and global trade was crippled overnight._

 _Then there was the unofficial sixth sign, a prolonged and unnatural darkness that crept out from across North American borders and spread to the rest of the world. But really, that was more of The Mist being brought down. The rest of the physical realm was taking cue from the Titan's example. All manner of monsters waiting in every country and continent were seizing their chances to strike at humans during this chaos, reestablish the old ways while human leadership was lost to depression and terror._

 _All over the world the digital technology that kept a web of connectivity failed. Various diseases thought to have died out made a comeback with mass casualties. Human children were taken and replaced with things, changelings or worse. And missing adults were sometimes found piece by piece or not at all. Neighbor turned against neighbor in panic and hunger, when the famine hit hard. Monsters reigned supreme at night and mankind was forbidden from locking doors unless they wished to be seen as offering a challenge. Cruel new gods, overlords for the Titan regime, could be seen racing across the daylight skies, since turned overcast and grey like a storm would be forever brewing. Since seizing back the heavens, they further punished mortals and mythological creatures by denying them the stars, or even so much as a clear blue sunny day. This could continue on for centuries, for Titans could hold titanic grudges._

 _All hail **Kronos** , reaffirmed King of All._


	2. The Seeker

**I'm reposting the story I posted on tumblr. Though there I posted it as "Waiting _On_ Blue Skies". **

**Hope you all enjoy, please leave a review, and for those following my other stories nothing has been abandoned.  
**  
 **Disclaimer: I don't own "Percy Jackson the Olympians".**

* * *

 **The Seeker**

The road was long and there was no traffic.

Tristan found he missed traffic. That was hard to believe. But these long stretches of road devoid of any signs of human life except for the sad reminders of yesteryear whenever he saw a dilapidated billboard was the height of tragedy. After the third or so sign he passed, this time advertising fast food when the last one advertised shampoo and the one yesterday advertised sneakers and well… well he really was starting to resent those dystopian action flicks he got bit parts in. Turns out they never could do justice to the atmosphere of grief and hopelessness in a new world where humanity was bottom to middling on the food chain.

He couldn't think of any movie that would make him miss shampoo as much as half-a-year without showering did. Even without shampoo though, between the heat and dirt from the road he cut all his hair off leaving just a clumsy buzz-cut. First few days he kept touching his head, feeling soft fuzz above the scalp like he was mapping out the hairline. Like he was worried the hair wasn't going to grow back. How he thought maybe he was developing a widow's peak. It felt funny under the 'borrowed' motorcycle helmet too.

Honestly the motorcycle wasn't his first choice, even if it was supposed to be 'cool'. When this whole… mess started he resolved going cross-country in an RV stacked with enough provisions and weapons to provide for his own country, at the very least a fiefdom if not a kingdom. Certainly more than enough for two people to get by, and that was always his plan. Was still his plan, honest to goodness. But about thirty miles down Southern California he hit literal roadblocks. Miles of abandoned cars. Wrecked vehicles and what looked like remains of battles.

Or more likely, massacres.

To get through he had to abandon the RV and go for a truck that had power and all-terrain capability. After that, when the damage was too catastrophic and the way slow, gas being eaten up each mile, only then did he switch to an abandoned motorcycle and as much supplies that he could carry.

At first he was elated at the freedom that the bike offered him. Zigzagging through stagnant traffic, able to siphon gas whenever he was running low from one of the abandoned vehicles, with the sloosh sound of the petrol inside the plastic as rhythmic as his own heartbeat.

Feeling free and unstoppable for the first time since this whole mess began he immediately found upon road and went full out on the throttle. Seemed to make sense at the time. After all, what was the point of surviving the apocalypse if you didn't try to live a little between surviving? And besides, he still had a lot of country to cover. Wasn't like he was afraid of being pulled over by the police for speeding, or getting his name in the tabloids, or much anything else. That was a mistake.

Turns out there was always more to fear, as he figured out one clear day on the stretch of open highway too remote for anyone to have made it out in cars before they were picked off by… things, creatures, devils from the sky. Twice he had to pointedly avoid piles of bone that smelled like a burst septic tank, pieces of scrap metal torn asunder but with unmistakable additions of truck tires, license plates, and sometimes (most horribly) children's car-seats. Every night he had to hide his stolen (he insisted it was 'borrowed' at first but even internally he couldn't keep up that denial) bike under dried out weeds and a raggedy blanket while he slept in a tent (when he had time to set one up) or just in a camouflage poncho in the dark listening to the hungry cries of those same nightmarish lurking monsters polluting the new world.

Better not to think about it, he had told himself. Better not to think about the people who didn't make it. To just keep going on. Moving on. Moving on and not stopping to think about the things he missed out on, like a four-picture deal and a supporting role on an Amazon original, how much money he'd sell-out to play 'Tonto' when the rights to "The Lone Ranger" was bought back from Disney, or things like surfing in Fiji and the sound of his assistant Jane's head getting crunched by something that looked like one of those Peter Jackson movie trolls in a toga or… or… oh god the twisted plastic toys and booster seats stained brown with dried blood.

Of course he thought about it, all of it. Until he could fly on the road unobstructed, and scream his feelings out to an uncaring sun in a dismal gray sky. He never did manage to scream out all his feelings, not enough to feel better, only hoarse. And distracted.

It wasn't rancid piles of cattle and human bones or the monsters that left them scattered about that almost did him in on the road, but a goddamn oil slick. Didn't seem possible at the time, but later he'd realize that it was arrogant to think he was the only person who managed to get through the traffic graveyards and monsters attacking in the night.

His pilfered helmet saved his life. An extra t-shirt was sacrificed to wrap around his leg, which was scraped raw straight through his now ruined jeans. And despite everything at risk, everything that he knew could be happening, Tristan never worked up the courage to drive his bike with the ruined paint-job and single remaining mirror over twenty-miles per hour. He tried, honest he tried to dig deep back in that pit of anger and rage at the feeling of helplessness he loathed, that he continued to fight against but it never amounted to anything more than a twinge in his leg. That steady pain that reminded him there were no ambulances, no cell-towers, no one coming down the road to play 'Good Samaritan', and even if there weren't monsters in the night regular animals would make short work of him if he was concussed or paralyzed or bleeding out from a splintery compound fracture…

It would be another week of persistent fear, misery, and growing fear of an infection in his wounded knee before he met another person.

(it would be an additional four days before he met someone human but he didn't know that at the time)

End of that week there was a fork in the road, one heading southeast and the other heading east. The eastbound road was marked by more vile carcass piles and cracked asphalt, and unfortunately no cover would be provided. Southeast there were gnarled trees at a distance, some with yellow, brittle looking leaves and hills at the distance that might've promised more cover, maybe even water. It was still east, just a detour further south. Just a little further south was all, and then back a new road, better prepared and rested.

Just a short detour, which was still too much a chance to take. Tristan continued East.

Half-a-mile in, the front of the bike started rattling hard enough that he needed a white-knuckle grip on the handles to try to steer straight. Two miles down and it got so bad he slowed down to twenty miles per hour… fifteen… five hundred more feet at mere ten miles per hour and he felt the whole bike shaking like a wounded animal taking final breath.

Somebody was saying 'no, no,' in a hoarse voice and it took him a moment to realize it was him. With no one to talk to, along with not wanting to risk being torn apart by monsters above or below, well, he wasn't exactly conversing much on the road by himself.

But he had to stop now, and just be thankful it wasn't dark out yet.

"Great," he muttered, "just what's needed."

The front spokes were straining, maybe the axle… well actually he wasn't sure. Wasn't sure about anything except how next time he was going to stick to scavenging abandoned cars. He thought maybe he'd be able to learn about motorbikes from time on the road with this one, through vain hope in some sort of vehicular-wisdom osmosis. Instead he was looking at a bike that was all kinds of messed up in the tire, and what was connected to the tire, with no means or ideas how to change or fix it.

So he'd be walking the rest of the way. Certainly he'd be taking his chances. But what choice did he really have?

"Don't want any trouble-"

He whirled around absurdly fast at the voice, gun drawn.

Oh yes, he had become a gun person. That wasn't his favorite change but was certainly necessary, given the changing times. Given his former ins with the Hollywood crowd, soon as he saw released videos featuring kids in armor fighting police and soldiers, Tristan wasn't in the crowd that believed it was a hoax or guerrilla marketing for a new show or movie. Too many variables, special effects hadn't caught up to those levels of realism, not a single person in the business even tried to take credit for the captured carnage.

As soon as he saw the footage he had immediately worried for his and for his daughter's safety. Which seemed a little ridiculous at the time, but he had spent the next six "King of Sparta" royalty checks on a new home security system, looked into bodyguard agencies, and asked his assistant Jane if she could go about getting him a gun. Discreetly of course.

The house was half-burnt and fully looted by now, he had no money to have continued hiring a bodyguard with on the road, but Jane had gone above and beyond. Disturbingly so, come to think of it, judging by the speed she got him a handgun and how there weren't telltale serial numbers where he imagined there ought to be.

He knew less about guns than he did about motorcycles though, and never did have time to figure out what ammunition his did or didn't take. Wasn't even confident in what the name was, just that it was something S&W, and it kicked like a mule when fired. First time he shot it in desperation at a looter he damn near dropped it, his whole arm feeling numb (except his shoulder that felt like it took a hit with a hammer) and his ears ringing. After that he had to forget all the action movie cliches (which he had come to despise) and hold the gun two-handed, obsessively count remaining bullets (four in the clip) each morning and night where another man might've had prayer time.

And he had only shot it once when he entered into this wasteland, scaring off some sort of bird-like thing that he was sure he had winged (no pun intended). He had to leave quickly after that, he was sure that it would've come back with whole flock of hungry, angry friends.

Basically, he had a whole mess of reasons to really not like shooting this stupid gun, and was very glad to see the person he was pointing it at was unarmed and unthreatening. And then, after the relief finished washing over him, he felt properly ashamed.

She looked maybe his age, plus another twenty added on from hard living that either came a long time before or shortly after monsters all came out to play. It didn't make her unattractive, though the grime and ragged cape wrapped around her didn't help, but he wasn't one to judge with his own wardrobe being far from dystopian chic. Honestly, she even kinda looked like his first crush growing up before he got interested in theater, and she started deriding him for reading 'white people' books and magazines. 'Red-on-outside white-on-inside, a shiny red apple for teacher', yes she even had that same look of quiet contempt beneath the universal signal of surrender. Like, how dare he pull a gun when she had made it clear she didn't want trouble, the nerve of some vagrants.

He gratefully tucked the gun back away.

"I don't want any trouble either. Are we cool?"

"I'd argue I'm cooler," she muttered. "But no trouble."

Tristan nodded. "Sure. Good." After a moment to consider, maybe if he was really cool or not, he dug through his pack for some sort of show of good faith. He had maybe about two or one and a half bottles of water left. Didn't really seem worth the risk of dehydration but… he pointed a gun at the first (somewhat) friendly face he had seen. He offered her the one not quite full, and when she didn't reach for it he left it at her feet on the cracked ground. And he made to continue on his way.

"You know you've picked the harder path," she called after him. "You know that, don't you?"

"Certainly don't have a lot more choices," he admitted, not looking back.

"You always have a choice. They don't want that, and they chose to ignore it. Soon they'll change it, as much as they can think to change. Poor Janus… what has become of him now?" Weird thing was her voice didn't grow fainter the further he walked on. "You should know, the way you're going, things won't get easier."

Tristan gradually slowed down the more she talked, and when he turned she was still right behind him despite the twenty, thirty feet he had walked. He could tell because that half-full makeshift canteen was back on the ground where he had left it. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?"

"Aretê."

"That… I don't know that one," he admitted.

Her answer, this Aretê, was a wry, nearly mocking smile. "I wouldn't have told you it if I thought you had known my story. Would've felt like cheating."

"Uh huh… but you are one of them. Aren't you?" Tristan found himself reaching for the gun again, for all the good he suspected it'd do him. He had seen police officers with what looked like bazooka–rifle lovechild get torn apart by monsters and by children with sticks and knives.

"One of the Titans? No, they didn't bother with me or with my sister. Kronos, he does not bother with human choices, he underestimates the importance… for him there will only be the path to more power."

"Um… alright, cool then. And thanks I guess but I'm um, not sure how this is important to-" Tristan gestured vaguely to the ruinous world at large. "Everything. Or how much a choice I really have."

"You always have a choice."

"Not when it's…" He reconsidered, suspicious. "It's personal."

She raised an eyebrow in response. Partway incredulous, but mostly that same bordering on contempt disapproval.

"They've… been taking people. Children mostly," Tristan admitted.

Aretê nodded gravely. "They've repurposed several of the old guard. Harpies, some sirens, they started collecting any children who might be useful." And the she gave him a meaningful look. "Demigods mostly."

Despite knowing it probably was the smart thing to do, and that what seemed like a lifetime ago he might've sunk into comfortable denial rather than admit to anything, Tristan found himself nodding. Once, twice, in understanding.

"And they took someone you cared about." Aretê nodded, knowingly. "Care about," she corrected, and he found himself relaxing. "You will be able to find her if you go down this road, but it won't be easy."

Tristan found himself holding out a hand, halfway in askance and halfway in a belated greeting. "Tristan. Tristan McLean."

She took his hand once, shook it curtly. "I know your movies. Did not like the whitewashing."

"I can honestly say I did not contribute to that," Tristan assured. And then surprisingly defensive he had to ask, "Did you like them? I mean th-?"

"Yes you did very well," Aretê said quickly, but sincerely.

"They took my daughter," he admitted at last. "I have to find a way to get her back. You said I'd succeed if I went this way though?"

"I don't know about that, do you have any sort of plan?" Aretê frowned. "I know you'll see her again, succeeding is up to you. Your plan, your ability."

"Well then I'm doomed," Tristan admitted. And he turned to continue on, Aretê in front of him yet again. "Alright getting mixed signals here-"

"It won't be easy," Aretê stressed again. "You can turn back. If you want."

What wasn't said was that she maybe hoped that he did go back, any other path but her path. that plenty of good people had already walked the hard path, the heroic path, and paid the ultimate price in disgrace or the oblivion of anonymity in this new unjust world.

"I know this isn't going to be easy, but I still need you to get out of my way," Tristan said firmly, more brave and tired than he had felt since this whole nightmare started. "Please."

The pause stretched for maybe less than half a minute and still managed to feel like half an hour. After consideration or maybe something deeper and more mystical, Aretê stepped (or maybe floated with only that ragged cloak brushing the ground) aside to leave the wrecked path open for Tristan. The canteen he had offered her was now in front of him. When he picked it up, it was full and cool to the touch.

"These aren't movie stars," Aretê warned one more time. "You'll be doing your own stunts."

That got him to laugh for the first time in a while, since this whole thing started. "I always did my own stunts."

Of course she wasn't there to answer back to that, maybe she had already left after getting in the last cryptic word. He walked on, his knee feeling better (the word for that was 'miraculous') and more certain with each forward step.

 _Piper, I'm coming. I promise._


	3. The Collaborator

**I'm reposting the story I posted on tumblr. Though there I posted it as "Waiting _On_ Blue Skies".**

 **Hope you all enjoy, please leave a review, and for those following my other stories nothing has been abandoned.  
**  
 **Disclaimer: I don't own "Percy Jackson the Olympians".**

* * *

 **The Collaborator**

As Warren Arthur Dare observed his reflection in an ordinate, full-length mirror, him in an alien fashion that bespoke tailoring and privilege, he resigned himself to his fate; to be the most hated mortal man in what was once upstate New York, and quite possibly all of what was the East Coast of America.

He vainly attempted to comfort himself in the certainty that if he hadn't stepped up and taken this opportunity when it was presented, someone worse might've seized the power. When that failed, he would try to convince himself that he really had no choice in the matter, that he was never a soldier or a particularly devout man who cared for gods or morals outside business ethics anyway. This business with these Titans, that was just another disagreeable alliance to further the profit margins, just on a larger scale than any he previously was used to. That didn't help him stand the sight of himself in the mirror any better either, and it always came back to how he was afraid; afraid for himself and for his daughter, somewhere hidden for whatever… 'business' the Titans were conducting around what was the Empire State Building in what was now merely referred to as 'The Polis'.

And business was indeed booming.

He resigned himself to another day of self-loathing and tied what amounted to a passable 'style' for the cooperative mortal elite. It was made to look like a business suit, this particular one even had the pinstripes he had favored back when he was a normal businessman, conducting normal business in a decidedly normal, not full-of-mythical-monsters world. But it was made by someone, maybe a nymph or faun or whatever else could work a loom with human-ish fingers, who had only the vaguest idea of how a proper suit should look. Ended up looking like a Nehru jacket with matching, seamless, shapeless pants. The outfit was completed with a swash of pale red, almost pink, that signified his role as 'administrator' of the Polis.

So now here he was, dressed like Dr. No with a beauty pageant sash. Still his social stature, if not his dignity, was relatively intact with the almost literal palace he was assigned. He missed his penthouse terribly, but as far as prisons went this mansion with its vaguely Mediterranean flare wasn't the worst place one could spend time in this new world order. So much so that whenever he swam in the indoor pool reminiscent of a Roman bath, or ate food with real sugar or fresh fruit (rarities in the Polis), he could almost forget that his new mansion was built on a leveled New York suburb.

Key word there being 'almost'.

Even if he kept in shape swimming twice a week in that ridiculous pool, there was no disguising his hair was going more and more grey. Even if he could eat scrumptious meals, he never found appetite and was growing more lean each day. Even if he was provided with servants, some human and some otherwise, he found himself missing his Guatemalan maid, his French chef, the South African driver, and the English butler. For crying out loud he had an actual butler once upon a time, how many people could say that? And even Jameson (or was it Johnson? Warren couldn't remember and he hated himself even more for it) couldn't compare to even worse losses. His company and properties that spanned the globe, along with the progress and fiscal success they represented, filled him with easy pride where being the Quisling of this sad fiefdom only filled him with shame.

But all that paled compared to the damn bed. It was almost supernaturally comfortable, king-sized with thread count that surpassed any previous luxuries he had ever experienced. And still, he was sleeping on one side of the bed (his side) with no company like every cliché widower he (both of them) had promised not to turn into.

He missed Elisa most of all. In every little thing, from the way the kitchen would smell like whatever scented candle she thought brightened the 'aura' of the penthouse, or the various theatre programs she insisted (or outright demanded) he give his patronage. He would wake up in early mornings and reach over to stroke hair that wasn't there, or dream of brilliant eyes that weren't going to be there. And every morning he'd be reminded that no, Elisa was gone, one of many casualties in what was the Titan takeover of the East Coast.

(Granted he also missed his mistress, Tilda, but that wasn't a detail he liked to focus on.)

All he had left of his old life, the only thing about his old life that had any meaning, really, was the promise that he'd see his daughter again. Once again, he was going to have to make sacrifices for Rachel that he prayed she'd never, ever, have to know about. That was the only thing that could convince him to get out of bed and put on this horrible parody of a power-suit and negotiate with literal monsters straight out of ridiculous storybooks.

So with a weary sigh he put on the last touches (including a scythe brooch and his spectacles, now with actual gold-wire rims) and made his way downstairs to his dining area, keeping his back straight to make sure he was projecting an aura of confidence. He really did miss Elisa.

The first thing that struck him as unusual was the smell. Since normally he didn't have to worry about anything being cooked before his say so, he found that he could afford to be of a particular palate. He didn't eat just anything; His stomach had been troubling him as of late.

Also it bizarrely smelled like someone decided to make fried chicken, which had never been a food he'd request for breakfast, or for any meal.

"Ms. Nancy, what is this? I didn't ask you to make…" Warren trailed off, his usual help not standing at attention. "And who are you exactly?"

If he didn't know better, he might've assumed that she was one of the unfortunate young people that Rachel used to bring home. Like Ryann, who he was certain was a boy until Rachel insisted otherwise, or any of her 'artistic' friends. This nymph had close-cropped green hair and unnaturally tawny-colored eyes like some sort of predatory bird, and ivy down her arms like tattoos. Another nymph must've been added to his staff.

She curtsied apologetically. "I'm Turf, um… sire."

"Mister Dare is fine," he corrected curtly. "Preferable even. What happened to the usual girl?" He remembered 'Ms. Nancy', her refused to call her by her actual surname, 'Bobofit'. That sounded like a name of a rodeo clown; It sounded like the name of a rodeo clown that all the other clowns picked on. She had red-hair, and that actually had been important in choosing to take her in. He'd be most cross if this was another power-play that the Titans forced upon him. They hadn't interfered with his household before, and though he assumed some of his non-human staff were spies, there was no avoiding that.

"You dismissed her," this 'Turf' said in reply, carefully.

That caught Warren off-guard. "What?"

"Begging your pardon but it's true Mr. Dare." Emboldened, the nymph continued, "you caught her stealing and sent her away."

That did sound familiar. Now he was remembering, a party he was hosting, a banquet where the loyalists could pay proper homage to their new 'benevolent' overlords, and things had gone missing from the kitchen. Things had been going missing around his house for some time, nothing he would really miss, but he couldn't afford to be humiliated or appear soft in front of the nest of vipers. Any one of the other administrators would be happy to present themselves as a more worthy choice for managing the Polis, anything to get out of the ruins of Jersey or Washington DC, and if that meant stabbing him in the back they'd do it without blinking.

And she cried, he remembered that, practically blubbered. She wasn't a terribly attractive girl to start with, but he felt strong sense of loathing at her lack of dignity. A red-haired girl around his own daughter Rachel's age, but this one had far more unattractive freckles and blackheads, with frizzy hair practically orange instead of auburn. Hmph, 'Bobofit', a clown name and a clown through-and-through. Whatever feelings of leftover paternal protectiveness dried up in the face of her burgeoning kleptomania.

Worst of all, absolute worst, was she claimed that she deserved some leniency since this was her first offense, like the world still operated on the 'three strike' policy.

It hadn't been her first time stealing from him, only the first time she had been caught. Of course he dismissed her.

He didn't want to think about it any further. Wherever she ended up, she'd survive if she was anything like him. Or not, in which case…

No, he didn't want to think about it at all.

"That's all well and good," he glared imperiously at this 'Turf' nymph. "But I don't ever remember hiring you. Mind explaining what you're doing here? And why you're cooking in my kitchen? And what exactly are you cooking in my kitchen?"

"That's actually my doing, very sorry."

Warren stiffened at the familiar voice. Not that he could do anything more now though, this was decidedly out of his paygrade. This was the 'man' signing the checks.

He might've been handsome once, annoyingly so, and he certainly walked with the easy confidence of one who knows he's attractive. But there were subtle, and not so subtle, additions to an otherwise human frame that made Prometheus' glamor fail. For the one thing, he dressed in a tuxedo even though most of the Titans absolutely detested human clothing and concepts past the Bronze Age. It was immaculate, but instead of making him look dapper or well-composed he had the unpredictable and artificial air of a Las Vegas magician's act. His face might've been handsome, perfectly so as it was designed by a master artisan like himself, except for the thin scars crisscrossing about from chin to bridge of his nose.

Oh, and he was about eight feet tall with every sign pointing to him being taller if the ceiling had been high enough of affording him the luxury. Titans had titanic egos, and Prometheus probably felt especially smug given that he played both sides and came out on the winners side.

"I hope you don't mind," Prometheus apologized, like he actually gave a damn about Warren (or any mortal's) personal space or hurt feelings. "I did hear about you being short on help and thought I might lend you the service of one of my best and brightest. Isn't that just what we were talking about Turf?"

"Yes Lord Prometheus," the nymph responded dutifully, worshipfully even. Which made sense, all things considered, state of the world with Titans firmly in control and all.

When she busied herself back in the kitchen (his kitchen) Warren remembered to ask, "what exactly are you cooking in my home?"

Prometheus sucked his teeth apologetically, hands in a mea culpa gesture that showed off the scars on his wrist, thick and jagged knots of marred flesh opposed to the fine razor-fine reminders all across his face. "Ooh, right, my bad, really. You see, I almost forgot we had an appointment, threw off my whole schedule, and I have to keep my meal times very very structured. So I thought, since you are short on help, why don't I just bring by one of my best and brightest, bushy-tailed (here he smacked Turf on the rump playfully with a dinner-plate sided palm, which sent her scurrying) servants and cook up in your fine house?"

"I wasn't aware we have an appointment at all," Warren responded testily. He tried not to let his resentment show, but this felt more like a power-play than anything else, and Prometheus never dropped his annoying, overly familiar tone. Give ancient man some stolen fire a few millenia ago and apparently that was enough justification to come into a man's house whenever you felt like it and have your help make a… turkey? "I'm sorry," Warren pointed, not sorry at all. "What is that supposed to be? Chicken? Goose?"

Now Prometheus grinned in sheer vindictive triumph, which was the most genuine emotion he had displayed since coming uninvited into the Dare residence. "Eagle, of course."

"… patriotic, in a way," said Warren, struggling to keep his tone even. He knew better to ask for a piece of the bird, this was an old revenge he didn't want to get in the way of. But he did sit at table for this unexpected 'meeting' and watched Prometheus dine with violent enthusiasm on his old tormentor. At least, that was what Warren assumed. "I take it that's-?"

"Same hungry bastard," Prometheus assured, mouth full. "I have to be careful when to begin eating. He comes back, same as ever, on the dot, every… twelve or thirteen hours. So I get a brunch or I get a supper out of him. Mind, I don't actually need to eat but it's all about the symbolism, wouldn't you say? 'Reason not the need', why couldn't I have had a chance to meet Shakespeare? Can you imagine Warren, what could've been done if I had a chance to meet with the Bard? So many human geniuses I missed out on because of a few misunderstandings with the old gods here or there. I know, I know, I shouldn't be complaining, things have turned out pretty well for me. I'll say! But still, hard to (and here he broke off a piece of wing) swallow even after all this time."

As Prometheus bit into wing, Warren bit his tongue, that maybe if he didn't need to eat he could leave the cooked immortal birds for actual people who did. Or maybe that there might still be geniuses out there for Prometheus to appreciate, but they weren't allowed any sort of advancement in this new Titan rule. But he held back bile and watched the Titan eat his old enemy from gizzard to marrow. It wouldn't do any good to try to shame one of his new benefactors. Besides, he had enough shame for them both. Bringing up the subject of food reminded Warren that he was the one who had the idea to have their pet sorceress use magic to provide meat for the people of the Polis. No telling what, or who, they were going about transforming into pigs to make all that possible.

He tried to tell himself that wasn't his fault either. "Is there anyway I can help? Was there any particular reason for this current visitation? And lunch?"

"Brunch," corrected Prometheus, gnawing down a wing to get off all the best meat. "Definitely feels more like a brunch. Though I do like sleeping in. You must too." And here he winked. "Don't worry, I know you work hard. No turning you in, no sir. Between you and me, the boss is kinda a dick!"

"I never caught that," Warren intoned, trying to keep from grinding his teeth.

That only made Prometheus laugh. Bits of bird were in his perfect teeth. "Smart answer."

"You don't keep me for my looks," Warren noted grimly, and thought back to the new grey hairs and the weight lost since all this started. Maybe he never had been the best looking man, but he certainly was the best dressed and best taste, at least in the world before this supernatural conquest.

"Well Warren, my problem is I work with several… Well let's call them people, even if we both know that's not entirely accurate, who lack imagination," Prometheus waved his hand. "The spark of humanity that has made you so persistent, so resilient, so adaptable. I would like your thoughts on a new project that we've been working on. Everyone you see, they have a new job, new calling, just right for this new world."

"I did notice," Warren nodded, feeling a little queasy. And this was true, he did notice things like the new pork that no one could remember coming from any farm. He only had to look out his window or at his own front door, both sides, to see fixed faces staring accusingly at him. Names like Circe and Janus started showing up in frightened whispers. And worse still was rumors about, well, a weaponized rumor-god repurposed for the Titans. What was it called? Arte or something, an unequalled spy and part propaganda machine all in one for securing the Titan reign.

"Atë," Prometheus supplied without any prompting, finishing his revenge meal.

Warren almost asked, perhaps foolishly, if Prometheus could in fact read his mind. Decided against it though at the last possible second, realizing that if that was possible of course the Titan wouldn't outright admit it. Maybe it was only incidental that Prometheus was dressing up like a second-rate Las Vegas magician act, but one thing that they most definitely had in common was that neither one would be easily persuaded to give up trade secrets. So instead he said, "Thank you," and waited for Prometheus to get to the point of all this intruding.

At the very least Warren had to admire an effective power-play for what it was. "What of it?"

"Do you have time for a quick trip? I promise it won't take long, it is just that this is the sort of thing that is better off demonstrated than talked about." Prometheus wiped his scarred lips and chin with napkin and stood to full height once again. "If you have the time, of course."

"I think you'll find I always can make time for you and your family," Warren assured, a knot of anxiety building up in the pit of his stomach. He didn't like going outside of the house, not when he could help it. However much he tried to claim it didn't bother him, how the looks of common people didn't bother him, there was some shame and fear that never really went away. Some things could not be justified, even if you had the free time to try to warp logic to fit your situation. In the end it always came down to the fact that he had no choice, and technically it wasn't him doing this to the people, to the world.

"That's the spirit," Prometheus grinned enthusiastically, which did tricky things to his already marred face. It was unclear how deliberately oblivious he actually was to Warren's turmoil. Maybe he was willfully ignoring it, just as he had to be ignoring Warren's personal space; he had clapped Warren on the shoulder with a massive manicured hand and was steering him out to the front door.

Cars weren't much of an option, since petrol wasn't in high supply anymore except for scavengers out west. While Warren expected the worst, he was still woefully unprepared for the alternative means of travel that Prometheus had provided.

Now, Warren Dare had seen some very disturbing, horrifying imagery since the Titans made their presence known. Every time that he thought he was finally desensitized to the casual cruelties (not that they quite outdid the inhumanity mankind showed one another, more like spoiled children kicking apart anthills whenever they were frequently bored), a new kind of monstrosity presented itself.

He thought he'd be used to it when the doors started spouting (or sprouting?) tortured looking faces, right out of the grain or warping the metal, sometimes peeling off paint. Inside and out, a face to spy and a face to guard, what they had 'repurposed' the minor god Janus to be in their new world order.

He thought he'd be used to it when he saw dozens of disembodied mouths zooming about like gibbering fruit bats, day or night, sometimes straight through solid objects and sometimes turning invisible as they descended on a crowd who would suddenly have juicy tidbits of gossip for their conversations. This was how they repurposed that other god (no, goddess) Atë as their propaganda machine, which was horrifying enough without the dreadful imagery.

He even thought he'd be used to it when he saw the Titan prisons (at least the ones that housed mere mortals, however briefly that lasted) provide an inexplicable number of pigs for the outer boundary farms and the Polis' slaughterhouses. No one would think twice about it; the Titans could work marvels and the people weren't picky or suspicious when the threat of starvation was very real. No one except Warren Dare, who knew that Circe and her apprentices were being press-ganged into service, and shortly after he swore off pork and most meats (perhaps another factor in his dangerous weight-loss) entirely.

What wasn't expected was a perversion of the carriage rides through Central Park he used to take Elisa on (never Tilda) during the holidays when he was feeling sentimental. Prometheus had no horses, and besides, the only horses that were available were drabs used for menial labor on the city outskirts, and were little better than mules. There were rumors (perhaps thanks to Atë) about herds of flesh-eating mares roaming around the outskirts of the Polis but it wasn't clear how much of that was true.

Instead of horses, Prometheus had a team of centaurs, chained like galley slaves to pull along the carriage, heads hooded like an executioner or maybe like the condemned. It wasn't apparent if they could see through the hoods in any fashion, but that probably wasn't a concern. The driver, a twisted, gnomish looking creature with a forked tongue and gnarled whip seemed to be all the eyes needed.

Warren kept up his mantra as they climbed into the carriage, Prometheus grown at his favored twelve feet now that he wasn't restricted by the ceiling; this isn't my fault, I'm not the one doing this. He repeated this with each crack of the whip and the centaur's torturous pace through the streets, trying to repeat it enough to drown out the sound of Prometheus' damnable humming.

If it wasn't for me, it could have been much worse, he played on a mental loop, just as they were going past the construction of yet another monument to the Titans. Without the assistance of machines or so much as a wheelbarrow, humans were hauling stones with bare hands and bent backs. It was almost surreal enough to pretend it wasn't real, but Warren used up that denial some time ago.

I don't owe these people anything, was always what came next, but this time it was a little harder to keep up the bluster when he saw a familiar frizzy orange mop of hair amongst the workers. Nancy Bobofit found work at least, and somewhere along the line a spine judging by her glaring at him regardless of the threats from the overseers. Or maybe she just hadn't anything more to lose? He almost envied her for that. Almost.

As always, his final justification rang the truest; anything for Rachel, anything for her.

Apart from the monuments and the ghastly transformed Empire State building, the more exclusive prison was the tallest structure in the Polis. Other prisons, where defiant humans were rounded up and put in pens to be doled out to whatever cruelty the Titans thought appropriate, were squat and unimpressive complexes. It didn't take much besides thick walls and monstrous guards to keep rowdy human slaves imprisoned. For anything more powerful or more important, the prison would need to be a little more refined to ensure containment.

"I need to see her," Warren begged Prometheus, struggling to keep up with the Titan's impressive stride. "Please." Heartfelt pleas didn't seem to phase the Titan's progress, or even give his damnable humming pause. But it didn't seem to matter, as Prometheus was taking him exactly where he wanted to go down the vast corridors and through doors taller even than his full twelve feet height. Again Warren wondered if Prometheus was actually limited, or just humble compared to his other kin. Perhaps the massive ceilings here were actually the norm for his family. It wasn't a comforting thought. More than likely he'd have nightmares involving a giant man-shaped colossus grinning down at him with teeth the size of car-doors before popping his head like a grape.

He'd have nightmares enough walking through these 'cell' blocks, which seemed more like a series of comfortable rooms in a high-priced rehab clinic.

That made some measure of sense after all, this was a place of reformation, not outright punishment. There was Tartarus for that, so Warren had heard, and was never planning on finding out firsthand.

Behind what was probably something a great deal stronger than glass there were creatures of alien beauty, or monsters that needed just a little bit more discipline before they were ready to serve as anything more than attack dogs.

Here there were also captive gods. None of the Olympians, their prison was much lower, these were gods that had aligned themselves with the Titans. In gratitude the Titans were helping these minor gods discover their true potential, helping them find a new purpose in the new world.

There was Morpheus, one of the many but certainly the most famous, possibly the most powerful, lords of dreams. He looked unnaturally tall and lanky, skinny as if starved, radiating colors that Warren couldn't name. He didn't try to name them either; looking too long made him uncomfortably drowsy.

There was Atë, shifting back and forth from two very different forms; one a tall and gorgeous woman who nevertheless had a touch of hatefully trashy exuberance about her that would make her more mistress material than anything like love, and a cloud of disembodied mouths. Thankfully behind the glass Warren didn't need to hear what was said, but each mouth was clearly saying something, almost drooling with excitement. More and more each day Warren saw less of the woman and more of the abomination of mouths despite how evident it was that the goddess was fighting to try to hang on to her more human form.

There was Nemesis, who wasn't so much pretty as terrifyingly formidable, almost in an admirable fashion. In truth she reminded him of one of his old company's best lawyers, a complete shark. But from a different point of view she reminded him of his mistress Tilda when she was at her most grasping and possessive. It was not the color of her hair, that was too dark, or her bearing, which was too militant. When he caught her eye she looked at him with the same certainty that she knew all of his sins, everything he'd never want Elisa to know about him. Everything he didn't want to know about himself, if he was being honest for a change. Each time he visited, she had new scars even though he never saw anyone else in her cell.

There was Janus, who last Warren was here was a literal two-faced man who spent his time in captivity talking to himself frantically behind the glass. What remained of him had been poked at and prodded by Titan servants, too weak to offer further resistance, no choice but to be diminished and what was left of him to be… redistributed. Soon after faces started growing on every door in the Polis, possibly everywhere there were doorways. Perhaps that explains why this new Janus looked like nothing more than to fused humanoid figures, standing back to back each with a pair of arms with spindly, spider-like fingers tracing the air and revealing images of people at table, people in bed, people looking fearful and mistrustful and most of all defeated.

These, he reminded himself, where apparently the minor deities fought with the Titans. Their demigod children still made up of the officers of the Titan army.

And this was how they were rewarded? Warren attempted to conceive of an idea of worse fates that could have been dealt to the Olympians fought against the Titans, but he gave up out of sheer horror.

At last there, and he was having trouble understanding why she was same block (or even the same prison) as captive gods and goddess, was Rachel.

To his boundless relief, she looked unharmed and in good health. He knew for a fact that she had to be unhappy with her current wardrobe, a flowing chiton that he thought inappropriately diaphanous in too many places to be practical. No, she would've preferred a pair of old jeans splattered with paint and a T-shirt that would've been championing one of her latest environmental causes. They were still allowing her to paint, which meant she was the only one who had any materials in her cell, a canvas an easel, and some paint. There even was a bed, a small futon-looking mattress to sleep on, and even a privacy screen (which she had also painted on) that he had to assume was for a bath and toilet. Every effort had been made to accommodate her being a frail mortal, which made it more jarring compared to the intentionally bare cells of the captive deities.

Still Prometheus kept walking, even as Warren all but pressed himself against the glass. Rachel didn't react, they never did when they were inside of those cells. "Wait. Wait just a minute, please-!"

"There'll be time for that later," Prometheus assured, not sparing Warren a glance back. Not given any choice, Warren reluctantly followed.

When they stopped, it was right in front of the strangest cell yet. Where as all the others only had the one occupant (Janus being a special case), this cell had nine occupants in total. Maybe they were identical, but maybe Warren just couldn't tell the difference between one or the other. They wore similar clothing to Rachel but seeing how they were older they wore it much better. They had the same starved look about them the other captive gods did, and they were gathered in a sort of semicircle with their heads pressed together as if in prayer or in deep concentration.

"Who are they?" Warren asked Prometheus, curiosity finally winning out. He thought himself an educated man, but all his classical knowledge failed him at identifying these prisoners. In his defense, he just saw his captive daughter so his head wasn't really back in what he learned in college electives.

"Daughters of my aunt Mnemosyne," Prometheus mused, looking perturbed for the first time. "Out of… respect for Mnemosyne's memory we're not insisting on any rash measures to bring her into the fold-"

Warren saw through the bullshit almost immediately. "You can't find her."

"Right, and even if she could be found," Prometheus shrugged. "We can't force her to do anything; there's no threat that could move her since she knows we couldn't carry any out."

"Why?" Warren didn't take any of the Titans, especially Kronos for obvious reasons, to be sentimental towards family.

"Her dominion is memory," explained Prometheus, with something almost like reverence in his voice. "Not just human, but memory for everyone. And if she was pressed she could conceivably lash out and make us forget our fondest recollections, or ambitions, or even just leave us mindless brutes."

Interesting, but that just raised a very important question that Warren had to ask. "Why isn't she the most powerful?"

"Simple," said Prometheus, "she's not the most powerful."

Too much to expect him to be helpful. "Ah. Fascinating. I really would prefer you could give me some time to speak to my dau-"

"Imagine Kronos without memories," Prometheus continued, looking even more worried. "He'd still be the strongest, he'd still be the same hungry, relentless tyrant even if she scrubbed his memory mojo clean. And if Kronos forgot things like 'who not to eat' and acted on his murderous urges well… the 'who wouldn't Kronos eat' list was already pretty short if you know what I mean."

"Sadly I do," Warren sighed, attempting not to collapse at the thought of things somehow getting more terrifying. "I don't see how I can help with these..?"

"The Muses" Prometheus supplied, breaking out of his short-lived funk. "The goddesses of the arts and culture. Now if we could turn them to our devices, now that would work out perfectly. I don't want you to get the wrong idea, Warren. I am a fan of man, and I always have been, but I know how hard this transition can be. And the best way I know how to make things better is to go straight to the source. If we can't rewrite the memories then we can rewrite the histories."

"Atë can't do that for you?" Warren had seen how effective that rumor goddess was out there, flooding the populace with different gossips and conspiracies that lead to nowhere but always provide a distraction.

Prometheus gave a snort that showed exactly how unimpressed he was with that idea. "Short term propaganda and misinformation, this is long term and airtight. I mean, haven't you ever heard that history is written by the victors?"

"Well, I am American," Warren muttered. Or at least, he was once.

Once again Prometheus either didn't recognize or completely ignored his turmoil. "They should be very desperate by now and if I'm right like I usually am, we should… there, there we go."

"Sir? I don't-"

"No no, look," Prometheus pointed, excitedly. Sure enough, one was breaking from the pack. The others either didn't recognize or didn't acknowledge her leaving apart from closing rank. Up close, she did indeed look haggard and tormented, but it didn't detract from the loveliness. It was a beauty that promised and inspired heartbreak, and before his eyes Warren saw the listless eyes regain a more vibrant sheen, going from cloudy grey to gunmetal blue, grow more intelligent and focused. And impossibly, for the first time since Warren had begun visiting this prison, she was staring past the glass right at him. Almost as if she could see him…

"Yes," Prometheus clapped his hands in excitement. "Perfect! I ever tell you I love being right? Because I love, absolutely love being right."

"I don't know what's going on, sir." It was eerie how she followed him as he stepped from side to side.

"Well I figured, being in the isolation like they are," Prometheus explained with relish, "they'll be starved for more stories to tell, and you're a perfect candidate."

"What?"

"Melpomene," Prometheus nodded. "She's been waiting for a new story to tell and your story, Warren, is just the kind she'd find irresistible."

It took about a minute for Warren to comb through the buried knowledge of the classics, try to figure how that made any sense. When it did click, it was because he remembered theater masks and pieced it together with how at home that look of defeat and heartbreak was on the Muse's countenance.

"Yes," Warren found himself admitting, as he turned away. "That makes sense."


	4. The Resistance

**I'm reposting the story I posted on tumblr. Though there I posted it as "Waiting _On_ Blue Skies".**

 **Hope you all enjoy, please leave a review, and for those following my other stories nothing has been abandoned.  
**  
 **Disclaimer: I don't own "Percy Jackson the Olympians".**

* * *

 **The Resistance**

He should be skipping classes or (more realistically) pulling the bare minimum of his weight at a dead-end job. Instead, what Matt Sloan was doing happened to be feeding slabs of bacon (that he didn't want to question to origins of) to horses with fangs.

Yes, this was his life now. Yay.

He wasn't supposed to be here, doing this. No, Matt Sloan had his life planned out before the monsters came crawling out from under the bed.

Well fine, his parents had his life planned out. Big difference, so what? He didn't pretend he was perfect. In fact, since the world ended, Matt Sloane was coming to terms with how he was kinda a terrible person. Or hopefully, how much he was a terrible person and that there was a lot to change. He had a chance to change, doing all this. Maybe.

Point was there had been a plan. No matter what his shitty grades, he would still make it into a college somewhere even if it wasn't Ivy League and get a major in BA, then go work for his dad's company. That didn't work out anymore, what with the world ending and all, and the worst part wasn't being forced to come to terms with how much of a miserable little bastard he had been, but how much he had taken for granted. How good he used to have it, and how much he'd give to have everything back to the way it was.

He'd give everything and anything to go back to a time where asking Sydney Blume to homecoming and getting soundly rejected was his worst memory, not seeing his parents trapped in a BMW and trod underfoot by a giant one-eyed monster man.

Not that he wanted to remember that. But then again he couldn't forget any of it.

He remembered every shitty grade he ever got, and how his parents must've pulled a hella lot of strings to get him through summer school. He never did thank them for that, only sulked around the house and slammed a lot of doors. He should've thanked them, if only so maybe they'd be happier and have less to yell at each other.

He remembered exactly how he had asked out Sydney Blume, right after lunch when he had a free period (that he should have used for studying). Soon as he made the offer she confirmed that while 'yes, she wasn't seeing anyone', she wasn't desperate. What felt like the whole school laughed at him after that. In retaliation he had scratched into the boy's bathroom wall 'SYDNEY BLUME IS A BITCH'. If he had stopped there, it might not have gone worse for him, but he added 'KIKE' to be thorough.

Yeah, he really was a little shit.

He remembered his parents coming to pick him up, having been called and told that he was under no circumstances allowed to remain on school property. They called it 'immediate suspension' but it would definitely lead to expulsion. Misogyny and destruction of property was one thing, throwing in anti-Semitism was both feet in the figurative grave. Seeing them pull up, together for a change, in his dad's BMW had been the worst memory of his entire life for about maybe twenty minutes.

Then the cyclops drop-kicking the car, firmly cementing it's place as top of his 'Worst Bad Memory'.

So, he had made the best of his situation, everything considered. Sure he had looted and maybe he was drunk or high for most of the takeover of New York City, but eventually all that ran out and he was left with all the withdrawal symptoms he didn't know even existed. He couldn't live in denial after that.

They found him, curled up in his own sick, sweating through his raggedy-ass track pants and jersey, pretty much waiting for the monsters to come and eat him. He only prayed, and that had been the last time he did pray, that whatever happened wouldn't happen to him while he was sober. He spent what felt like a year crawling through the city as it was getting torn apart, chasing his next high to make it bearable, and he knew that poetic justice would be him running out of anything to score right when he was faced with a horrible way to die.

But the people who did find Matt Sloan all that time ago didn't want to mash him, boil him, put him in a gigantic deep fryer and/or slurp on his entrails. Turns out that the bigger the tyrant, the more rebels slip under the cracks left by ginormous footprints. Or something to that effect.

Point was, there were people who gave a smeared piece of steaming junkie crap like him a chance and cleaned him up. They gave him a purpose beyond 'scrape through another sad and lonely day' or 'chase your next high to make the next day bearable'. Maybe he'd never be able to forget how much a shit he was, but just maybe, maybe he could be some sort of hero now. Or help real heroes.

Or something like that, he really wasn't sure what he was doing, and he really didn't want to know. If he got caught and they tortured him he'd rather not have anything to say. Maybe they'd be able to tell he didn't know anything and kill him right away?

Yeah right. Like anyone would be that lucky.

Matt Sloan wasn't very brave, it turned out. Or tough. But maybe he was a little wiser since all this happened, because now at least he was willing to admit it. Was a weight lifted off his shoulders, 'Matt Sloan: Coward and Proud'.

Or something like that. He really didn't know what to make of his life anymore, not with the bacon-eating horses and monsters taking over America or the way the sky looked like the inside of a chain-smoker's lung all the time. All he really knew was that this wasn't how his life, or anyone's life, should ever be turning out.

Maybe if this worked he'd have a chance to apologize to Sydney Blume if she was alive somewhere. And if he died, well… well maybe he could still apologize to her. Definitely could apologize to his parents.

Plenty of people that he needed to find and apologize to when this was over.

For now though, he had to make sure that these 'noble', flesh-eating steeds dragged this here cart. He didn't know what he was supposed to be carrying in it, but judging how stooped the two figures up ahead looked, it was bound to be heavy.

He remembered his parents paying for riding lessons; sure, it wasn't the same thing, but he wished he had paid attention to those lessons now. Maybe they would've helped, these scary freaks could probably smell fear or something.

"Easy, easy. Er, whoa boys, don't be dicks and bite anyone." Yeah, he was no master horseman. If he at least tried to show how not afraid he totally was, maybe the liaisons wouldn't think he was such a pussy.

That was doubtful though, they were already looking at him with clear mistrust and disdain. They were older than he was too, a lot older. Thirties, maybe even fifties, grizzled and grey enough to be anywhere in that twenty-year gap or even more. Didn't help they looked like baths were scarce and shaving razors were all busted. One guy had a greasy looking ponytail and the other dreadlocks, both were wearing layers of clothes that could conceal any number of supplies or even weapons. Most Matt had by way of a weapon was an old Christmas stocking with half a brick and some marbles stuffed in it.

These guys probably wouldn't give him a real weapon if he asked pretty please, even if either one of had a spare. So he would have to use the greatest weapon known to man; muthafucking charm.

"'Sup homies?" He waved, and nearly lost control of the reins. "Um, live long and prosper."

They stared at him like he was an idiot, then the dreadlocked guy shook his head in something like abject despair.

Not a good start, better to wrap this up quickly. "So um, are those the stuff?" He nodded to the bags they had over their shoulders. Looked heavy, maybe he should make an offer to help them load up the cart. Or was this a wagon? Whatever, he didn't actually want to let go of the reins if that meant the horses would have yet another reason to think they could break free and chow down on his ass.

"You're the one they picked for delivery." It wasn't a question, but ponytail guy said it with a sort of amazed or incredulous tone that Matt couldn't help but think they guy was considering making a run for it, that he thought the whole thing was a bust. But then he shrugged in the same sort of expression that his partner displayed, which was either despair or uneasy acceptance.

Chalk that up to another successful interaction with actual people, courtesy of Matt Freakin' Sloan, ladies and gentlemen.

Needless to say, he didn't think any further of offering to help load the bags. Probably a good thing too, as soon as those bags hit the wagon he could feel the whole thing rattle in his seat. Wasn't sure how much this rickety thing could take. Where did they even get this thing, the Amish?

Did any of the Amish survive? Maybe some of those Mennonites? And if they did, would anyone really know for sure? Odd as it was, Matt kinda hoped so-

His sympathetic revere was interrupted by more rattling from behind the cart, and a groan of the axle under new weight. "Whoa whoa, how much of the stuff am I carrying? I don't know how far I am supposed to go and these things barely listen to me as it is-!"

"This is the last one," said Mr. Dreadlocks, grunting as he hauled up the last pack. It made a tremendous thud in the back.

Matt looked back at the cargo before they tossed trash bags and then a tar-covered tarp overtop of it. What looked like old canvas backpacks and gym bags were taking up all the space, some stacked on top of the others.

He found his mouth was going very dry as he was piecing together how wrong everything could go. "Look, I don't actually know how long I'll be traveling and I don't know how long this big pile of splinters can last with that much weight. Oh, and if it breaks down I won't be able to fix it and these things pulling it are probably going to eat me-"

"Well then we hope that doesn't happen," Mr. Dreadlocks assured in a deadpan tone a few steps shy of sincerity. More genuinely he added, "and may God be with you."

Oh for crying out fucking loud. "Seriously dude?" He looked to Mr. Ponytail, ignoring the glare that Mr. Dreadlocks was giving him. "Do you have any imaginary friends wishing me well too?"

"I'm a Buddhist," he confirmed as if it actually helped. Maybe he actually thought it did. "Also, if you run into any of those LARPers, don't try to outrun them. Get your story straight and go through when they let you."

"Yeah, thanks." Matt had a sinking feeling he wasn't going to get any better advice. "Well it's been real, you guys stay Zen or whatever, and if you don't see me again I'm probably dead."

"You will never see us again," replied Mr. dreadlocks with grim certainty.

Brrr.

After that fantastic peptalk, Matt Sloan decided he'd be better off leaving right now. It was a long way to… actually he wasn't actually sure if it was a hideout or just the entrance to a hideout, or if it was only one of many. Come to think of it, he probably didn't want to know. The less he could reveal under torture the better. He was under no delusions that he'd do anything but crack like the world's wimpiest walnut as soon as they started in with thumbscrews or racks or like, crazy stuff he never even heard of before.

If this was one of those cold war movies or something like that, he'd have a cyanide capsule in a fake tooth. He wasn't even sure these people had so much as a dentist joined up, so suicide tooth was out of the question. Bummer.

Sure enough, wasn't long before the flesh-eating horses were getting restless, not at all happy to be dragging this big a load. Maybe it was how much slower they had to move with the additional weight, or maybe it was just his bad luck, but either way there were guards at the border. And not any of the backstabbing norms either.

A pair of LARPers were keeping guard, leaning on spears.

They really did look like those nerdy Live Action Role Player geeks, they always had, even when the police body-cam videos were leaked. Maybe that's why they were so hard to take seriously at first, dressed up like a bad Xena convention with all that Greek armor or something overtop jeans and sneakers.

It stopped being funny when it was shown that they knew how to use those weapons, and that some of them had very real powers, like the X-Men if they were complete dicks. These two up ahead we're dressed in a matching set of patrolman's armor, what looked like lighter material for necessary sprints and dark color to blend into the ruined New York cityscape. Only thing that made each of their armors distinct was that besides the customary sickle that they had embossed on their breastplates like a couple of Ruskie communists, one had what looks like a crow or raven detailed on a helmet to get tucked under his arm and the other had what looked like a pig.

Normally it was that kind of detailed shit that would warn people what they could do, but so far Matt Sloan wasn't able to piece together what crow or piggy translated to in terms of superpowers.

Probably nothing good.

"That's far enough," warned Mr. Crow.

With effort, Matt was able to bring the horses if not to a complete stop then at least to a mild trot. "What seems to be the problem, officers? I guess? Sir? Sirs I mean?"

"I said that's far enough." Mr. Crow nodded to Mr. Piggy who picked up his spear and promptly flanked the slowly moving wagon. "You know you're going outside the limits? With what looks like some pretty serious contraband. That's quite the offense."

"That's a bunch of offenses," added Mr. Piggy, poking at the piles of trash bags with the butt of his spear.

Fighting down nerves and struggling not to picture how he might look writhing at the end of a spear that was buried up into his guts, Matt Sloan committed himself to this new role; weaselly little smuggler. Wasn't that much of a stretch. "Look, guys I know that you have a hard job and I appreciate your service and keeping us safe and everything, really I do. But we need to get this thing in as tribute, because if we don't people are going to be miserable. They'll be miserable because people upstairs are going to be offended, we can't have that."

That got both of those LARPer shits to re-evaluate shaking him down. Reminding everybody about the pecking order had a way of doing that.

"Exactly what kind of tribute is this?" Asked Mr. Crow, wrinkling his nose as if to say 'what kind of tribute smells this bad?'

Instead of answering, Matt reached underneath of the blanket/tarp thrown over the wagon, reaching for his own pack but hoping that they just saw him reaching under for any of the bags.

When he felt slime on his fingertips, he had a plan. He pulled out some of that bacon of questionable origin and quality, showed it to both of the disgusted patrol-boys, before tossing it to the horses who snapped it up mid air and fought over it like starved wolves.

"Those nature freaks out there, in the Wild, I don't know what it is but they can't get enough of this fatty meat crap," Matt 'explained' indulgently. "There was a thought going around that if we traded some of our stores, folks in my section might be able to get some fruit for a change." He didn't miss how either of these assholes' eyes glinted with hunger and greed. "Just do us a favor, just this once? Some of us are like, bleeding from the gums, that scurvy shit like we're living inside of that old Oregon Trail computer game."

Both LARPers looked at one another, considering. It did not take a genius, which Matt admitted he was not, to figure out that they were planning on confiscating his contraband after he came back with some very valuable fruit. Besides, they probably didn't feel like rifling through trash bags and were extra wary of the horses after that display with the bacon.

"Maybe you could look into getting some oranges?" Mr. Crow asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"I'll see what they'll give, but at this rate we're probably going to settle for whatever they give us, even if it's brussels sprouts or something." He flicked the reins and the horses gave a bloodcurdling sort of not quite a neigh not exactly a snarl.

And like that, he was in the clear.

Sorta. The lands west of New York had been overgrown, or overrun, by nature. It got so bad the horizon could be blocked by trees the size of towers, and shapes he might've thought were parade floats or planes. Even the vicious, man-bacon eating horses were getting restless going through even the outskirts of the woods. If they cut through the forest instead of circling the edges maybe it'd be quicker, or maybe they'd get eaten or fall into quicksand or some shit like that.

So yeah, no rushing or taking chances with any of the possible shortcuts. Besides, it wasn't that far when you knew the way and when you knew just the right things to say.

Wouldn't have been fun to trek through that fucking jungle, which was formerly upstate New York and Pennsylvania. That's probably where those Amish and Mennonite people were living, which was pretty disappointing, but Matt entertained the notion that they all adapted like Tarzan in there, or maybe were still churning butter and building barns underneath sequoia-sized pine trees and stuff. Probably not true, but nice to think about.

No, his route led him to what was probably a perfect picnic spot, the kinda place you have to hear about from a friend of a friend who went on a hike with a girl who was worth the sweating, cramps, and bug bites. It was the very definition of a romantic little meadow getaway, with soft grass, shade, a wonderful view of the sunset behind the ginormous trees and a trickling stream that spilled out in a picture perfect miniature waterfall into a charming little swimmin' hole. Probably was the ultimate place to get laid on an outdoorsy type of date.

After the current company that Matt had been keeping though, he didn't focus on the view all that much, aside from a fanciful imagining of a girl who maybe looked like Sydney Blume getting convinced to give skinny-dipping a try.

He wasn't sad to see the flesh-eating horses go, even if he didn't think he could handle this next part so hot by himself. A few miles of sitting behind them, steering them from errant squirrels and keeping them on the road, and them dropping foul smelling shits every so often, that wasn't a bit of fun.

"Alright, be free you buncha mules," he called out as he carefully cut free the tethers which they proceeded to tear apart. He tossed some bacon far, far away to make sure they got the idea not to follow him. "Alright so, try not being turds, don't eat anyone cool, ok? Yeah, cool, thought so. Great."

Thankfully he was a fit, strong young man. So it should only take him about half an hour to move the cart to the pool of water.

Two agonizing hours later, and once nearly drowning, he managed to haul it there. Good news, he was only moderately certain he had thrown out his back. Bad news, he wasn't sure he remembered the password, and that was probably important because he wasn't sure he could tread water after hauling that heavy ass cart into the shallows.

"Some… Somewhere, over the pft!" Water had gotten up his nose from the waterfall. He had swallowed some too. Yes, this was his life now. "Somewhere, over the rainbow, la de da, there's place I dreamed up once in lullabies., where somewhere I forget the words and lemondrops and that's where I'll be." Still nothing, he thought he was getting it right. "Come on you pieces of shit! Do I really need to go through the whole number? Isn't it enough that someone comes to the middle of nowhere and starts singing this stupid song for you to think 'hey, maybe they already know about us?' I'm dying here!" He coughed, tried to find a proper rock to stand or something, the one he was on he had to stand tiptoe and it sucked. "Somewhere, blah blah the rainbow, why can't I..?"

He had heard what was supposed to happen next, but it still took him completely by surprise. Yeah, Matt Sloan went to school, he did focus on things, including like fractals and stuff. Light passing through and making a rainbow. There was a bit of a rainbow already going on with the waterfall (which he was certain was getting stronger when before it was just a trickle) get hit by the sunset just right. But now? Now he was seeing all the colors going at one-hundred percent, like he was going blind with a whole color spectrum taking a final bow. Red, Orange, Blue-

Wait did a few just get skipped?

Yellow, Green- right, there they were. Another Blue, Purple, and then… then…

Everything went white for a bit after that.

And then grey. But that wasn't light, that was concrete.

Concrete and people in jumpsuits with hands all over him, checking his suddenly dry clothes and frisking him very thoroughly.

"Hey, hey! Hands off!" He shoved one of the frisky people back (or tried to) and looked around to see more people crowding the cart. It also looked like it had been magically transported and dry-cleaned.

Turned out, under the tarp and the trash was gold.

At least, Matt thought it was gold, certainly explained the weight. It would've made him a lot happier if this was like, a heist movie or something and he was getting a cut, but he had been told that this was a weapon of some kind. "Um, seriously, what gives? Where are we going to spend gold?"

"Bronze," a blonde-haired man corrected patiently, pushing back spectacles. He was the closest to the gold-that-was-actually-bronze, looking over it closely. He turned to a buff dude with no sleeves on his jumpsuit, and a rainbow tattoo on a meaty bicep.

(Matt offered no comment on his tattoo choices, not when the guy was that jacked.)

"Butch, if you could..?" The mad-scientist looking guy motioned to the metal, and with a look of deep concentration, the buff-guy, Butch, picked up a small piece and held it in the palm of his hand. Kinda anti-climatic.

"It feels pure," Butch confirmed, tossing it lightly from one hand to the other. Others were crowding around, and some of them had guns. All of them looked like they weren't supposed to even dare to hope but couldn't help it now.

Matt was starting to guess that this wasn't a kinda bronze used to make third-place trophies, judging by the way a small army was looking at it like it was Jesus' or Buddha blessed or something. It should've made him feel important for delivering, but all he felt now was very small. Like it was finally hitting him that he was part of something bigger for once of his life, and if this stuff didn't do what they all were hoping it did, he'd probably be in the shit.

"How pure?" The mad scientist guy asked, worriedly tapping an old pen against the bronze still on the cart.

Instead of answering, because of course that would be too normal, the big guy Butch tossed the piece of bronze he had picked up to the scientist. Matt underestimated the old nerd, he caught that thing for sure.

At first, the disappointment in the room was palpable, almost as strong as the hopeful atmosphere before was, like a breath had been held only to be let out as a painful groan. But then, before everyone's eyes, the bronze slowly slid out from fingers.

No, not from between the fingers, through fingers, through the hand and the wrist even to fall to the floor with metallic clang.

"Seems pure enough," Butch declared. Turned to another one of the assembled men, and now Matt could see from the way the guy carried himself and an extremely faded camo jacket that this guy was former army for sure. "Colonel, if your men could get into the city, how long would take for them to be in position? How many would you need to cover a retreat?"

"There won't be retreating son," the Colonel spoke gravely, whole body tense even as people crowded around the weird ghost bronze stuff. "After all that was promised, we take back a city or people are going to forget what we used to stand for. As Americans, as free people-"

"You take so much as a city block and the Titans will crush it before leaving evidence that their rule can be questioned," Butch retorted, almost with as much dignity and authority as the Colonel.; it was all kinds of impressive for a teenager with rainbow tattoo on his arm. "We go in and start taking out their low to mid-level lieutenants, their best monsters and whatever demigods they might've twisted, and… and half-bloods. I know which ones are important to the city, I helped put them there." He looked extremely ashamed at admitting that, but no one else reacted besides some minor grimaces and arms folding.

To Matt though, it was news; this Butch guy with the rainbow tattoo was probably the most dangerous person in the room by far.

"I didn't send in people to extract this garbage so that we could target traitors and LARPers," the Colonel seethed. "Chase, you said this could be used to make weapons, weapons that could hurt them."

People seemed to be in the mood for tossing things instead of answering questions, as Chase (the scientist guy) tossed that pen to Butch. Reluctantly, Butch clicked it once, twice, and it sprung out into a sword made of the same bronze. After people got over seeing it, because they got past the point of screaming at magical displays and were now at the point where it just was very uncomfortable, they tried to touch the blade. It passed through everyone as Butch waved it around, before clicking it back into un-existing or something.

"I can make something out of this," Chase slowly admitted. "It's purity is in question, so it can still hurt mortals and it won't be as effective against monsters, but it will hurt them and we won't risk as much friendly fire. Civilian casualties will be a minimum. But this is a limited amount. We still need to think of the smartest way to use it. When you only have one magic bullet, the shot has to count."

"But you can make it into bullets?" The Colonel seemed very insistent on getting that confirmed, and Matt couldn't really blame him. Rushing monsters and the LARPers with weapons out of 'Julius Caesar' (a play he did not read despite being on multiple summer reading lists) was probably just going to get a lot of otherwise badass jarheads killed.

"I've done it before," Chase confirmed, looked to Butch. "Now if I had some more half-bloods that would be willing to help..?" When Butch nodded, Chase rallied, "then we'll have no problems making more bullets. A question of brass or copper shell-casing around the celestial bronze, it can be loaded same as any other bullet, in whatever make of gun we can mass produce them for. We'd have to decide on one that the consistently best shots find favorable."

"M15 or AK," the Colonel suggested. "If it's all the same I'd prefer it if the guns stayed with soldiers and not any of these," he almost said 'LARPers' again but stopped himself with an apologetic look to Butch, "half-bloods. They've their training, of a sort, and powers."

"That's fair," Butch agreed. "If you can also stop them going and getting themselves killed. Retaking the city will be impossible, Kronos is too firmly entrenched." Now he looked incredibly guilty. "My mother gave me and some others a chance to run, and a way to keep hidden. This place might not stay safe if the Titans have an idea that there's a real threat. We go at them like a knife to the jugular they'll crush us, but if they keep thinking we're just a thorn in their side-?"

"Butch," Chase interrupted, "with all due respect, there's a difference between our forces and Kronos; he could wait us out, and our c-children if he wanted to." The scientist guy paused, and if Matt wasn't mistaken there was a crack in his academic talk for just a few seconds. Made Matt wonder what exactly this guy lost before the world ended and all that. "We could try to do nothing and try to let him forget us, but when have you ever known a deity like Kronos to forget what he hates? And make no mistake, Kronos holds every human who doesn't blindly worship him in the utmost contempt. We remain an itch he can't scratch he'll just make the world bleed all the more. If we're going to fight at all, it'll have to be to further his destruction, one way or another."

Butch nodded grimly, as did several other people in the small army gathered around. "You're right, Professor."

'Professor,' Matt thought. Now that made sense.

"So we retake-" the Colonel started, vindicated.

"Nothing." Professor Chase looked back up to the military man who was looking very annoyed. "Oh, I'm sorry Colonel, I didn't mean that I agreed with any plans that involve trying to fight open-war with Titans."

"It won't be open warfare in a field," the Colonel scoffed, "we're not exactly going to take turns shooting or announce ourselves. We go in under cover of night, we liquidate any of their assets on the ground, and force them to come down from the sky where we can use those magic bullets to make them hurt."

"Which won't kill them, since they're immortals," Butch pointed out.

"Which is also why waiting them out is as dumb an idea as they come," the Colonel retorted. "I know we can't kill them, or even these horror movie monsters that just keep coming back if you blow them up, but if we can hurt them enough to knock them down and tear them apart with old snowplows or something, I'll take that any day over giving up."

"I appreciate that," the Professor nodded, "and I want nothing more than to tear all the monsters apart. But you used these terms like 'liquidate' and 'assets' like it was going to be a bank transfer, instead killing more mortals and half-bloods on the ground who are just scared. I know, I know we're all scared and we didn't join the Titans, but these are our people. We're supposed to be fighting for them too. They deserve a chance to see that the Titans aren't invincible and then make another call. We will attack the city, and it won't be to harass what they won't miss or try to occupy ground. If we destroy what they can replace in so much as a century it won't be enough, and if we try to fight Titans as we are now it'd be the equivalent of stacking sandbags to block an atomic bomb. We need middle ground."

The Colonel stood at attention. "What do you propose?"

"We're behind you all the way Professor," added Butch. Other members of the Resistance added their enthusiastic support.

And yeah, maybe Matt Sloan was feeling a bit of the love for this guy too. Not like, gay kinda, but just maybe a little. So what?

"There's a structure in New York that can't possibly be used for anything other than the keeping of gods," Chase declared, his matter-of-fact tone going at odds with the magnitude of the statement. "Minor deities certainly, but as we all know," he nodded to Butch, "minor deities can give some of the most important gifts in times of crisis. It's Kronos' way to betray those he can get away with betraying, just like it is leaving his kin imprisoned. Call it paranoia, his nature, or a narrative flaw that is ingrained within his consciousness since dawn of time, point is he's left us allies. We just need to be bold and smart enough to reclaim them. We go in, and we escape with any of the minor gods who would be willing to swear to an allegiance with us."

"A retrieval mission," the Colonel nodded.

"Rescue mission," Professor Chase stressed, "even if some of these deities helped Kronos they're probably being tortured and held against their will now. We can't trust all of them, no probably not, but some will be willing to assist us if only to get revenge or be free."

"None of them counted on Kronos turning on them," Butch muttered. "Even though he did it before. They all just wanted thrones so badly. We were all promised so much."

"Even if this won't immediately lead to a total Titan defeat, it will be a victory against them for at least the one battle," Professor Chase insisted. "One time that can stand the test of history to show future generations that a difference can be made and that they're not invincible. And future generations will have allies who can provide their own gifts and strengths, and they'll be as immortal as Titans. That is worth the risk, certainly enough for me to go as well."

"That's not a good idea," the Colonel objected.

"There won't be anything left I could help with once this celestial bronze runs out, certainly not anything I haven't taught younger men to do." Professor Chase shrugged. "And they're my guns. I should have faith in them doing the job."

Alright, so now Matt Sloan was officially more than a little gay for this guy. This crazy, mad scientist who also is a super soldier action hero sort of person.

Could you blame him?

Plus, once again, Matt felt that he was part of something bigger than he was, something important; and he didn't feel smaller because of it this time, but bigger and more important too. Maybe not that he'd make a difference for sure but that he was living in a time where he was in the position to make a difference if he just had the balls to try.

Not entirely sure that he did, he kinda was a coward and a piece of shit for a long while, so best try this 'courage' before it deserted him completely.

"How many of those guns do you think you can make?" Matt asked, surprising the crowd (and himself, if he was being honest). "And can you make one more?"


	5. Those Left Waiting

**I'm reposting the story I posted on tumblr. Though there I posted it as "Waiting _On_ Blue Skies".**

 **Hope you all enjoy, please leave a review, and for those following my other stories nothing has been abandoned.**

 **For those of you hoping that I'll get to posting about the demigods and gods, where they are now after Kronos won, I'm sorry to say this is the last chapter. Only was going into the POV of mortals who survived, the story of the demigods fighting back is from another story called "Kings of Olympus" by advictorem. It currently is being rewritten, and I look forward to seeing it completed.**

 **Maybe this fic will be canon in that story, maybe not, but want to thank advictorem for inspiring this narrative. And again, thank you everyone who read and reviewed.  
**  
 **Disclaimer: I don't own "Percy Jackson the Olympians".**

* * *

 **Those Left Waiting**

 _There is a woman who lives alone._

Here in the ruinous boroughs, the nymph Juniper slipped through monuments to Titan victory; a pile of cars impaled on a spear several stories tall, or a whole load of manhole covers that had been tossed like a game of horseshoes, some deeply embedded into the concrete.

Whatever creatures were large and mean enough to do this much damage had hopefully moved on. At the very least Juniper was reasonably certain that if the monsters who did all this were still around, she'd have heard the footfalls from their patrols pacing, or territorial howls. At least that was what she desperately hoped. The thought of monsters bigger than Laestrygonians or a cyclops who could keep quiet enough to sneak up on a wood nymph, while not impossible anymore with how the Titans have experimented, was terrifying.

Juniper wouldn't have risked leaving the Wild if Fredrick hadn't asked her personally. And she still might have hesitated if she hadn't heard about the woman.

For the longest time Juniper hadn't even dared believe the most capable heroes, half-bloods like Perseus Jackson and Annabeth Chase and Clarisse la Rue or Artemis' lieutenant Thalia Grace, had survived. If the greatest heroes of the modern age and mightiest of the Olympians children hadn't escaped Kronos' onslaught and all murderous revelry of his army, why even bother to hope mere mortals in New York City had managed to escape destruction.

That Frederick had heard that there was a woman who matched the description of Sally Jackson herself was nearly too good to be true. Too many people had been lost already, good people, even humans who might've changed the world for better instead of worse.

From what she remembered of Percy, his mother certainly counted. Now she was only worried that the Sally Jackson that raised Perseus Jackson and was spoken of so highly by her beloved sweetheart Grover wasn't there anymore.

Judging by the rumors that Frederick had heard, she had changed drastically. Not necessarily for the better either.

 _There is a woman who is said to keep a stone ear in her pocket._

What she remembers of Percy Jackson is a very loyal boy who would fight for his friends against insurmountable odds. His loyalty might have been his greatest strength, and it might have been his most fatal flaw. He saved Grover a number of times, and fought valiantly beside her and other nature spirits against monsters who'd burn the entire forest if it meant destroying the Camp Half-Blood grounds.

But he took every loss personally, each death and each betrayal left him a little more jaded, and a little more violent. Perhaps that was supposed to be a good thing, they were supposed to fight a war, but a war between family never would have a real winner. Only by means of rampant cruelty and unceasing hunger was Kronos ever a worse option than the neglectful, often abusive Olympians. Towards the end there was no love lost between Percy and a number of the gods, each of them having betrayed or used him for their own purposes, some nefarious and some outrageously petty.

Juniper didn't like to judge the Olympians too harshly, immortals tended to be more 'big picture' concerns than the often easily offended and brash mortals or half-bloods. Even so, she had witnessed enough loneliness and suffering from the half-blood campers to understand their resentment for their distant parents, and she had seen all manner of good and bad mortals alike. It was hard to hate them or dismiss their destruction out of hand like so many other, more callous nature spirits.

Her time on Mother Gaea had been shorter than most nymphs and certainly brief compared to the ancient Olympians and their Titan predecessors, but she liked to think she had enough time to learn to forgive. And her heart broke a little bit to see that bit of forgiveness and gentleness in Percy Jackson get ruined by anger, loss, and tragedy.

If his mother was anything similar, then maybe there was some truth in those dreadful rumors after all… That the Titans didn't bother with her even if she was once beloved of a god because she was now just another broken vagabond wandering the ruins of the city. That she dresses in rags and rants at the broken statues like they're the gods who failed to protect her son, who dragged him into their war and risked his life. That she's waiting to turn to stone like Niobe come again, raging against the ash grey heavens until all that's left are tears without end, tears enough to match the depth of her heartbreak.

Enough rumors confirm the existence of an ear she keeps in her pocket, that she talks to in malevolent whispers, enough that Juniper has to believe that there might be some terrible truth to what all their sources have been saying. That maybe, just maybe, the mother of the Chosen One of the Prophecy (maybe the last prophecy) has lost her mind.

 _There is a woman who everyone assumes is crazy._

Well, if Sally Jackson is some kind of crazy, it must be crazy as a fox. Any tramp can hide in the ruins of the city, scrounging after the leavings of the Titan loyalists in the Polis. The area she picked had been touched by enough of the wild that parking garages had been filled out by vegetation, that crooked skyscrapers were being propped up by trees that had grown too quickly and mightily from roots deep though asphalt to have been naturally occurring. Here there would be plenty for urban foragers to make their meals, maybe even cultivate gardens where they could provide fruit to trade with the workers in the Polis.

But that seemed unlikely, because even though there probably wasn't the Titanic presence responsible for the most grievous carnage here today, there was most definitely monsters lurking about in the abandoned buildings, hiding in the forests springing up out of parking lots, or prowling below in the old subway tunnels and sewer systems. All but the most desperate and despairing humans were in the Polis where it was safe at night, safer to be the slaves of the Titans and their followers than risk the darkness that helped hide the hungry monsters and all their brood.

Juniper found it hard to hold on to hope for Sally's situation the more time she had to think about the unlikelihood of her survival in this ruin that blended the worst of the Wild and the city's predators. She had to keep reminding herself that this was the woman who raised the Hero of Olympus, the son of Poseidon who nearly turned the tide of the war as easily as he could have turned the tides of the oceans.

But it was getting dark early, as early as it always did with the skies going grey, and Juniper was worried about how long she'd have to look before the monsters started coming out from stone and woodwork. They would all be thinking that a lone nymph far from her shrub would probably be an easy and tasty meal. She would of course try to prove them wrong, but she didn't like her chances all the same. Her switch and a few tangling vines would not save her from half-a-dozen rabid teeth and rending claws, or slathering venom or a hundred other more horrible appendages best suited for eating innocent wood nymphs.

Grover would be afraid too. But he'd still go, because this was his friend's mother. Grover Underwood had been the bravest, most selfless satyr she had ever known and she missed him so badly.

She had to try, to try to find this Sally Jackson woman, if only for him and Frederick. Both of them were brave, she could try to be too.

But she was so afraid, and was hearing noises from behind shattered stone and piles of scrap metal that looked like it had been bent with bare hands.

 _There is a woman who some say is a witch._

Juniper tries her best not to think about Medea, Medusa, Scylla and Circe, and other witches who turned to evil out of spite or madness or anger towards the gods. She hadn't heard anything like the broken mortals outside the Polis being converted to the dark side and granted magic, but she wouldn't put it past the Titans at this point.

The new world order had one common variable; the worst you could think about was probably the safest bet.

Probably didn't expect to see a luncheon being prepared at an old picnic table, featuring a 'who's who' of all the worst sort of monsters. Some with leonine claws, some with bovine features, some with too many teeth, some with too few eyes, and all with plates of plastic, glass, or metal trays. And at the head of the table was a woman of curly black hair and blue eyes who could be no one else but Sally Jackson herself.

A hostage situation, now turned to a meal being prepared for the monsters. She was too late. No, no this wouldn't stand, she had to do something!

Juniper burst from her very safe hiding place and rush to what was probably a very painful, picnic meal death at the hands of hungry monster brood. "Mrs. Jackson!"

"It's Ms. but how can I help you-?"

Juniper jumped across the table, growing a swath of vines and weed straight from the wooden planks to tie down claws and talons, running for Ms. Jackson with what she hoped was a frightful warcry that would convince the monsters she was terrifying, and not at all terrified.

Sally Jackson wasn't looking relieved or even confused, which probably was what Juniper was hoping for from a willing rescued person. Then again, maybe there was poison or hypnotism or even charmspeak at work here. Maybe? Didn't explain why Sally looked more worried for Juniper's sake.

Or maybe she noticed the bovine-like creature that had broken free and now was charging through the table, splintering the planks and scattering the other occupants in haste to intercept her.

 _There is a woman who is protected._

The blows from the creature's fists might have split Juniper's skull apart and ripped flesh off her bone, and each bellow hurt her eardrums terribly. She did her best to get some distance, throwing tangling vines at it's hooved feet, ducking behind pieces of concrete and dross. But she was running out of debris to hide behind, and if she didn't get Sally out of here soon the other monsters might rally and overrun her, might cut off any chances of escape. There were only so many exits as it was.

No, she'd have to be on the offensive, and she'd have to make it count.

First thing first was this second-rate Minotaur, who was seconds away from trampling her underfoot like the poor daisy beneath stampeding herds. If this thing was anything the original Minotaur, than it's weaknesses would be it's sense of direction (which would help them in escaping this thing for sure) and it's poor eyesight.

She'd make use of it's poor sense of direction when they were running through the maze-like ruins, but the poor eyesight she could use right now very effectively.

One clever feint and then she launched a barrage of attacks with her switch, with the aim about face and shoulders, mindful not to hit her switch against budding horns. Maybe she could succeed with getting out one of the eyes.

She didn't think she did, but it crouched all the same, and for a moment it was looking like it was going to charge again but… then it started shaking, bellow turning a deal more mournful and pitiful.

Like it was actually crying.

Sally Jackson threw on a tattered shawl and seized the switch right out of Juniper's grasp, wearing a disapproving frown along with the rags. "That wasn't at all necessary."

Juniper wasn't expecting to feel sorry for a monster, or guilt for hurting it, but seeing how small the horns were on it's enormous head, and listening to how miserable it sounded changed her mind very quickly.

She looked about at the other monsters who were freeing themselves, and taking the time to free each other, from the vines she had grown to hold them down. The developing claws, the patches of fur that wasn't finished growing in, the halfway molted skin, the baby-fangs instead of a proper monster maw…

"By the gods." Juniper looked to Sally. "These are-?"

"Children," Sally explained tiredly, rubbing the Minotaur… calf on it's enormously muscled back and shoulders, mindful of the fresh welts from her switch. "After all the monsters were given free-reign, and no heroes to slay them and send them back to Tartarus, they started laying down roots." Apologetic look to Juniper. "No offense."

"None taken," Juniper assured, still too horrified to properly process all of this.

But what was she expecting, really? She had thought that the monsters had been breeding, she had know this was true for Cyclops children and hellhounds and the like but she wasn't sure she was expecting them to be… children. Brood felt more approriate.

Now all she was seeing was the Olympians' mistakes revisited in the Titans and the monsters who took the world back.

 _There is a woman, and she is still a mother._

You never stop being a mother, you never stop being a parent, that much is certain. Sure people say it, and claim to understand it, but it is a deep and elemental bond that few could ever really grasp without being a parent themselves.

Juniper would've wanted that, once upon a time, with Grover Underwood. They'd have had beautiful nymphs and virile satyrs together, after the war had been won and they were both ready. They would have had all the time in the world to wait once the Titans were defeated, and now Juniper wished she had been honest with Grover about what she wanted right then instead of waiting to tell him after the battles where they might've both died.

Where he most certainly did. She didn't bother hoping anymore for some miracle that he had escaped the vengeful Titan forces scouring New York for Camp Half-Blood fighters. Hope seemed more like denial now.

And these delicious berries tasted like ashes in her mouth.

"Are you not hungry?" Sally looked concerned, doling out foraged food to the motley collection of abandoned monster children she had collected. They ate berries and roots mostly, but a few of the meat eaters were given what looked like skinned rats for their plates. The table was destroyed so they were sitting Indian-style in a circle on soft grass or on top of cinderblocks that were scattered around. "I actually don't know if, or what, nymphs eat. Or not. So are you more a bowl of topsoil kind of girl? Spring water? Sacrificial lamb?"

"I can eat this," Juniper insisted. "As long as it's not juniper berries, that'd be weird. Not necessarily wrong," she stressed, "but very weird."

Sally nodded understandingly. "That's good."

"You did well," Juniper nodded in return, trying to be as genuine as possible. "Cultivating them, they seem like product of a bush a nymph would be proud to live beside."

"These things practically grow themselves," Sally admitted. "Besides, I have help."

"Yes, I have to ask, how did this whole thing happen again?" Juniper gestured to the monster brood. "Some manner of symbiotic relationship formed out of injured predator nursed back to health by potential prey?"

"Probably something like that in science terms," Sally admitted. "I never was very good at the sciences, or math. That was Paul. And even he needed google for the darndest things." Sad smile. "You don't know, but Paul was a man I was going to marry. Mortal, I hadn't a very good marriage with this one mortal after Poseidon left me with Percy, and then we were separated when the Titans took New York and crushed what they didn't like. Shaped the rest into the Polis. I was lonely and found all of them, some practically babies just abandoned. They don't have anyone to turn to, that's what bothered me."

"That the monsters would be monstrous parents," Juniper raised an eyebrow, "or that the Titans won so many half-bloods to their side by claiming they wanted to put a stop to this same exact thing?"

"No more abandoned children," Sally intoned flatly, "and a throne for every god. And now gods are in prisons and monsters leave their children in the shadows while they take what they want in the night."

"They aren't exactly… I mean they won't be children for long," Juniper warned, a little nervous that she felt she had to explain this at all. "Horns will come in, claws too. Maybe some will breath fire."

"They needed a mother," Sally insisted calmly, but with steel in that soft voice. "Or they just needed someone who'd give a damn. And I needed…"

There wasn't more that was said, and Juniper didn't press the issue. She didn't claim to understand it, but no longer could she say that Sally Jackson was crazy.

Just exactly what she expected from Percy Jackson's mother.

 _There is a woman, and she is the best mom in the world._

After they had finished eating, Juniper and Sally had walked a bit. It was some companionable silence, a human trying to make the best of her ruined city and a nymph trying to make the best of her corrupted nature. The monsters (one day Juniper would come up with a better name for them all, those tamed children) were tucked in and the sky was starting to go from slate grey to stony black with no visible stars to immortalize the deeds of gods or heroes.

The cruelest of Kronos' cruelties, Juniper used to think. Now she wasn't so sure.

"Frederick asked you to come." Sally wasn't asking, and judging by her resigned tone of voice she had expected this maneuver for a time. "Did he tell you why?"

Now Juniper wasn't sure how to explain this, she didn't even understand, but Frederick Chase had eyes like his daughter Annabeth when he wanted to be serious. When those kind of eyes were telling you to do something, it was as inexorable as a decree by the Fates. And Juniper couldn't deny a brave man who was willing to restore the balance.

"I don't know," she admitted. It was hard to be anything but honest with Sally Jackson. "He just said you'd be important to the cause. He said you would… or that you could give people hope. And we need it, there's more patrols each and every single day at the borders and it's not just the Polis that is getting worse. The Wild isn't the Wild prophesied by Lord Pan, it's gone twisted and bad. Like a tree with the blight. Things are growing too big, too hungry. It's nature according to what the Titans want, and at night you can hear Mother Gaea groan in her sleep, pained at what her children do."

Sally was quiet for a moment, and it was getting dark enough that Juniper even with sharper eyesight than a human couldn't quite make out what was the expression. Or maybe she just didn't recognize human facial tics like she once might've. These mortals had more surprises than she had expected as of late. "Why do you think I can help?"

"I don't know," Juniper admitted. "But if you can, won't you?" Please?"

Another silence, this time not so companionable. Far more tense, save for the steady exhale of Sally Jackson steeling herself for something, a pronouncement or gesture that she was fighting to make. "I trust you."

 _There is a woman, and she was an artist once._

It had gotten very dark now, and Juniper risked making a torch with some dead grass and an old piece of a STOP sign. In the flickering light she was unnerved by the sight of an ear Sally Jackson pulled from her pocket. Sally had seen her expression and let out a self-deprecating chuckle. Clearly she wasn't unaware of the stories being told about her. After closer look, Juniper saw that the ear wasn't preserved flesh but stone. Not natural stone though, but petrified human. A piece of a Medusa victim.

There were a whole bunch of pieces in a garden, bits of broken stone in tall grass and bushes. Judging by how many, it was probably a bigger man, at least bigger around the belly. And while the weather had done a number on the features, she saw that he wasn't a very good looking man when Sally found what was probably more recognizable as a head. It was graffitied, stained, weather-worn, and looked like it had been kicked around like a soccer ball by some rowdy Laestrygonians but it was still somewhat a human head.

"You make a better marker than a husband, Gabe," she muttered as she matched ear to the ugly, decapitated statue's head. "They started robbing museums for old relics, and loot, the Titan army. What wasn't worth taking was worth breaking. Seemed a good idea to put some use to what they left behind."

She started digging. After a bit, Juniper offered to help but the hole wasn't deep.

"… Is that..?" Juniper was in awe at the bit of exposed amphorae.

"Hestia's final gift," Sally confirmed. She touched it reverently, and breathed deeply. "Or Pandora's last curse. It's hard to tell some days. But they won't find this. I won't let them."

After a moment, slowly and when there was no objection, Juniper did likewise. It was warm to the touch, beneath the dirt, and there was a soft and fragile fluttering from within. "… do you think Grover might have gotten out of New York?"

"If Percy did," Sally nodded slowly, "I like his chances."

And for once, Juniper found the strength to hope that was true, and it didn't feel like desperate stupid denial. After everything that happened, everything that they had faced before and after the war with the Titans, people were still here, the Wild still had those who refused to be twisted into predatory parodies of what they once were, and some minor gods refused to be corrupted.

Juniper swallowed hard, wiped her eyes before the tears would spill out. "I was wondering what Frederick was talking about. He's not usually one for speaking poetically but… I didn't think it was this literal."

"I can't give this to Frederick," Sally admitted to Juniper in the dark. "I can't give it up. I need it for Percy. But tell Frederick," she swallowed hard, "tell him it's for Annabeth as well. And for him. For all of them. You tell him, there's hope. There will always be hope."

 _There is a woman, who is alone, and she has hope._

 _Hope that her son will come back home, and the skies will turn blue like he promised her before, and things will be set right again._

 _She won't give up that hope for anyone._

 _She'll wait for the skies to be blue again._

 _(and she won't have to wait for much longer)_


End file.
